Resonance

White on white
      A white girl
      In a white room
      Being pushed into a white machine

Kindly pushed I should add
     Paul is my MRI tech
     I hate MRIs
     I get through this MRI by thinking about my man   
     I call him the beautiful man
     He’s gone now. Gone forever.
     His name means too much
           so I can’t say it
     He has simply become 
          The Beautiful Man

Beeps and buzzes bombard me 
      Enter me
White walls entomb me
      It’s hard to believe these machines don’t cause cancer
           Terror comes nearer
      I repeat every beautiful thing he ever told me
      Time with you is a precious gift
            He said
      I remember his kisses
           His eyes shut
      I remember asking him how I did
           After our first kiss
           Magnificent he said
      I remember my read resting awkwardly on his arm
           Our backs on the grass 
                outside Garfield Conservatory
          Leaves against the clouds 
               filling my view above
          His lean face filling my view to the right
      I remember him skating backwards
           Grinning and relaxed
           At the outdoor skating rink
           Me skating towards him
                Chatting about his two boys
                Wearing his extra hat on my head
      What should I call you?
           He asked
           Playfully working to find the best pet name for me
           I never needed a pet name
           I just needed him
           He could have called me catface
                and my heart would have melted
      My beautiful Abigail
           Is the last thing he ever called me
           And the best
           Because he said “my”

Who knew
      Someday he would be gone
      And his memories would rescue me from an MRI machine

   

I Just Finished Pride and Prejudice

I think what I like best about Jane Austen’s romances is the lack of physical contact. By the time you get to the end of the book and Lizzy and Mr. Darcy are violently in love not one kiss has been given, received, or even thought about. They have taken walks. They have talked endlessly through their disagreements, emotions, and desires and have walked back into the happy and messy Bennet house. But they haven’t held hands and Ms. Austen hasn’t shed a single drop of ink on their physical interest in each other.

One of my dear friends once told me she thought women were more rational than men. She couldn’t have been more serious and determined in her claim and I couldn’t have been more quietly skeptical. This, my skepticism, I am now skeptical about. Jane Austen has written some of the greatest romances we know, or at least some of the most culture shaping, and she did it strictly through the emotional and largely intellectual connection of her main characters. That’s an achievement and it seems to point in the direction of my friend’s conclusion: Jane Austen was intensely rational. For her a romance was a connection of minds and souls, hearts and desires, personalities and temperaments, but not bodies.

Or perhaps she was simply living in early-Victorian England where such talk was not allowed.

I don’t know. I do think I’m likely in love with Mr. Darcy though. And Elizabeth would make an inspiring and heart-felt friend. Jane Austen never got married and she wrote, I believe, primarily about love. I think I’m a bit sad about that. She died at 41. I am now not too many years from her death year. I still hope to be married. I still hope to have children. Somehow I am to be lucky while Ms. Austen was not. Dear Ms. Austen, I hope for a love as you describe. Not ultimately lacking physicality, but certainly a deep emotional and intellectual connection. Perhaps I ask too much. It appears Jane Austen did.